


Like Gold Out Of Lead

by ClementineStarling



Series: This Path That We Walk Upon [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is short of temper these days, belying all claims of patience. Twice the insolent dwarf has already dared to defy him and he cannot tolerate a third time. So when he has Thorin brought chained and shackled to his quarters in the dead of night, he attempts a different approach...</p><p>  <span class="small">(Set in Mirkwood during the journey to Erebor, suggesting that the dwarves were a little longer in captivity than DOS allows, but then there's also been a book, so I shamelessly mix whatever I like best)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Gold Out Of Lead

**Author's Note:**

> One night, very late or rather early, I was walking home through the abandoned streets and then, suddenly, like an epiphany, I had this vision of an elegant elven foot in the coarse chest hair of a dwarf. And I've carried the picture around with me for four weeks or so and I sincerely hope I got rid of it now by paying this tribute to whatever entity is responsible. 
> 
> I blame pherede for getting me hooked on this pairing and [Jaqueline](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel/pseuds/jaqueline_nutweasel) for making me chase every bloody plot, erm porn bunny that comes my way, muttering „Oh dear! I shall be late!“… I run after it of course, every time, - and fall into darkness. So this is another edition of my _long dark teatime of the soul_ , including rabbit, march hare and hatter and all. (It's all in my head)
> 
> Sorry this is not a happy story… it’s not even really porn. And yes, I do like to tie up characters impersonated by RA. I don’t know why… it just keeps happening.
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of [North Star, Inverted by Circle Takes The Square](http://ctts.bandcamp.com/track/north-star-inverted%0A):  
>  _It was all a delusion | It’s all in your head. | It was all an illusion, | Like gold out of lead._
> 
> As usual: talk to me, I'm pretty chatty as you can see. Also appreciated: advice on the proper usage of the English language. ;)
> 
> **PS on the question: How noncon is my dubcon?**   
>  Since I regard dubcon only as a lighter version of noncon, I always tag it as such. However this is neither a rapefic nor a ravishment fantasy. Thorin is Thranduil’s prisoner, and although he has some weird love-hate-desire for the Elvenking, he is still tied up and touched against his will, even though he kind of likes it; there are also mentions of past violence and rape fantasies. No penetration. This is written from Thranduil’s POV as the perpetrator. 

The night is black as tar and deep as a rabbit hole when he sends for the prisoner, and though the guards do not question his orders, he can see the hesitation in their faces and they do not look him in the eye once they’ve dragged the dwarf to his private chambers. They only throw him at his feet, shackled and fettered, and retreat in silence, children that they are, bound by a strictness of morals he cannot fathom anymore. He is too old to afford such qualms of conscience; with time his heart has turned hard as a hone; a rigour that keeps the mind keen and the wits sharp (and his life lonely) and he knows this to be the price of leadership. It is a burden he is willing to bear for his people and rarely does he ponder over the weight of his crown and the nuisance of ruling. But now that the jangle and clatter of chains is testing his patience and the noise makes his ears ring and his head ache and irascibility twitch in his fingers, he wishes he could simply be one of his soldiers, care about little more than ranging the woods in starlight and a good cup of wine. Yet just like qualms such are not the concerns of kings; he has to deal with a stubbornness that left unhindered might bring them all to ruin.

Thranduil shifts in his seat, his poise not quite as stately as usual as he stares down at his captive kneeling before him, all shaggy mane and spiteful demeanour. The _naugrim_ are known to be wilful creatures, but this one has proven to be particularly vexing, even by dwarfish standards; there is something about the dwarf that irks him and Thranduil cannot quite grasp what it is... Perhaps it is the fact that where typically the line between friend and foe is rather distinct, here it blurs and twists, a riddle refusing to be solved; or perhaps it is the fact that Thorin is not unpleasing to the eye, now that he is bared to his gaze and scrutiny, literally almost naked. The guards have stripped him down to his trousers, depriving him of all royal symbols, of his status and propriety, yet his bearing is no less prideful than before. Nothing in his glare indicates humility and his shoulders and neck tense with the strain of resistance, and again the ire sparks in Thranduil’s guts.

Twice the insolent dwarf has already dared to defy him.

The first time he asked politely, in due form, from king to would-be monarch, but instead of understanding the kindness of his offer and meekly accepting it, the cursed _naug_ had the nerve to refuse him, even cast the blame for his miserable fate on him, ruler of the Woodland Realm, accusing him of falsehood and cowardice. He was merciful then by just incarcerating him, not ripping out his impertinent tongue. The incident has risen his bile though and thus, the second time, he was less gentle when the dwarf would not yield. His bruises bear witness to that, black and blue stains left by the moonstones on Thranduil’s fingers. Still, not even the Elvenking’s wrath would make him compliant, and unsuccessful Thranduil sent him back to his cell. Yet he has sworn to himself that he will not, that he can not tolerate a third time of defiance.

„So, have you reconsidered my offer?“ Thranduil asks, tilting his head a little, so his silver white hair cascades around him like moonlight, accentuating his unearthly beauty. His face is a mask of calm, but in his eyes lies the chill of winter. 

The dwarf spits something in Khuzdul that is so rude and disrespectful, Thranduil decides not to hear it lest he’d lose his temper but when his captive tries to rise, he stretches out his leg and places his foot on his broad chest to hold him down. It’s the oddest picture, the pale elegant toes against the dark hair and hard muscle. Even stranger, the dwarf falls silent, freezing under the touch, something unreadable in his gaze, and Thranduil smiles this little smile of his, that is barely more than a faint curl of his lips. 

„I see“, he says, rubbing his foot against Thorin’s heartbeat that’s quickening like thunder under flesh and bone and he observes how the dwarf’s eyes go even darker and the heave of his chest and the clench of his fists betray his struggle for control.

He wonders how he could have overlooked the signs for so long, never realised what lay beneath the rancour and bitterness of Thorin’s demeanour. Only recently, when he recognised the emotions in his son’s expression, the same longing, the same timidity masked by aloofness, did he begin to understand what was at the bottom of Thorin’s resentment. He remembered days long past, visits to Erebor, when Thrór had been King Under The Mountain, the eagerness of a young dwarven prince, who bright-eyed had promised him all hospitality, all courtesy he had to offer, a smug smile on his face that Thranduil, then, had mistaken for the pride of an adolescent boy, allowed to play royal envoy for a day.

While the boyish admiration has decayed into loathing over the years, the emotional foundation is still there, under all the layers of hate and animosity, fuelling his rage. And now that he has tested his theory he’s been proven right: Every fibre of Thorin’s body tells it - the dwarf still wants him, even if he cannot admit it, least of all to himself. But the need is shining within him, too bright to be concealed from Thranduil’s keen eyes, now that at last they’ve been opened.

Curious how these dwarves work, he thinks, they burn hot like a furnace, an all-consuming blaze, outshining the stars, only to smoulder out soon after, nothing but dying embers and campfire sparks lost in the dark, as is the deplorable fate of all mortal races…

His foot stirs this fire and tangles the emotions, desire and enmity run into one, and Thranduil knows that it’s not the first time they mingle and mix. He can see the truth in Thorin’s fury, sees the countless nights the yearning has burnt in his belly and dreams twisted affection into fantasies of assault. There is guilt in the hatred, remorse for what he has never done yet he still might, may he ever get the chance.

Thranduil understands all of this and still he keeps his toes spread over this heart that is riddled with pride and with shame, finally convinced that this time, he will prevail.

„Don’t“, Thorin says, unexpectedly, voice brittle like crumbling stone. Some of his boyish beauty has crept back into his features, an inkling of innocence lost and a life never lived.

„Yield then. Agree to my offer“, Thranduil demands and his sole eases against lithic chest, raising nipples into hard nubs, as he watches Thorin shaking his head and biting his lip, stifling every sound that might wrench itself from his throat, not only rash words but also moans of pleasure.

His foot slides deeper, over the ridges and vales of dwarven muscle and over leather stretched tight by arousal and Thranduil feels Thorin’s cock press back against the touch, eager and hard, and it does something to him he has not quite anticipated, it kindles a desire of his own, a sudden spark of interest. It uncovers a memory that - buried for centuries under austerity and seclusion – could be the spark to set ablaze the arid draught in his heart.

He observes how Thorin’s eyes flutter shut, how his lip splits under the clamp of his teeth, the blood red, a vivid reminder that the life running through dwarven veins is finite and their bodies are not carved from rock.

The Elvenking cannot explain the lure but it tugs at him, merciless, a tingling in his guts that’s unnerving and exciting at the same time, he wants to lay hands on this creature, explore what he can do with them, stroking and teasing…

He leaps to his feet. A few quick, purposeful strides and Thranduil is behind his prisoner, kneeling, his long limbs clouding the dwarf like a shadow, long arms wrapping themselves around the powerful chest, pulling him flush against the length of his torso. Thorin does not move, he’s like stone, petrified; without protest he allows the hands to glide over his skin, cool against the glow of his body, and he holds his breath as swiftly they loosen the ties of his breeches to reach within.

The dwarven cock weighs heavy upon Thranduil’s palm, strange and silken, so unlike his own in colour and form he is awed and enthralled at the same time. Quickly, so he won’t be distracted any longer by the marvels of dwarfish physique, his fingers close around the swollen flesh, and soon the jolts of pleasure shuddering through Thorin’s body are echoed by his own, reacquainting him with the once familiar stir of desire.

Thandruil leans into the warm bulk of the dwarf, the dark hair startlingly soft against his cheek, and thoughtfully he watches Thorin’s expression: the silent, open-mouthed moan, the eyes squeezed shut, the twist of his features answering the strokes of his hand, calm delight beneath a grimace of pleasure. How can it be so easy to bring this tortured soul to rest, Thranduil wonders. And so easy to wake his own desire at the same time.

The throb between his legs, so alien to him in its insistence and nature, is already melting his resolve to stay in command of this. Where his caress takes the turmoil from Thorin’s mind, it passes over to himself, a confusing array of emotions, of sensations and feelings. The scent of iron and earth, the heat of skin, the comfort of a body pressed against his, the overwhelming urge to kiss these lips, the longing for the slide of tongue against tongue and rough palms roaming his thighs. But, he has to remind himself, Thorin can’t touch him, even if he allowed it, since his hands are bound, his limbs chained; the dwarf is his prisoner, completely and utterly at his mercy. If he wanted to, he could simply bend him over, yank down his breeches and bury himself in this tight arse, fuck into him with deep, punishing thrusts, the tightness so good around him… Thorin’s own fantasy come to haunt him.

Excitement flutters in Thranduil’s stomach at the thought, but even more at the question that follows, swimming on the surface of his lust-muddled mind: How would it feel to be used like this? To be held down and fucked? The idea is so vile, so forbidden, it renders his mouth dry and his breathing shallow.

It takes a moment until Thranduil realises he’s about to lose his composure and he wills himself to see this for what it is – a strategic move in their game of power and politics, instrumental to his plan, not an end in itself. He must make haste to escape the temptation – for his own sake and for Thorin’s too. Who knows what he might do to him once passion overruled reason. 

His hand glides over tender skin, just the way he himself would like to be touched, fingers curling around the shaft and teasing its sensitive tip, while he tries to think about gems of starlight, cruel and adamant as his heart, but to no avail. All his senses are drawn back to the living, breathing being in his arms, spellbound by the strength and the pride that now appear tamed. Thranduil feels the shivers shaking the sturdy frame, the heaviness in the limbs and he hears in Thorin’s ragged breathing that it can’t be long anymore. 

„Thorin…“ he croons into his captive’s ear, voice dark as a lullaby, „now will you promise me what I desire?“ The pace of his hand slows until it is only lingering on the aroused flesh.

At first there is just a dissatisfied growl forming in Thorin’s chest at the lack of stimulation; it takes him a while to gather his wits, but when he speaks, his answer is as gruff as it is surprising: „What do you want then, Elvenking? Surely this is not about gems anymore. If it were, you could have done as you said and let me rot in your dungeon. Instead you go to such unforeseen lengths to win my compliance. So, why take the trouble…“ He turns his head, so their noses nearly touch, as if to kiss him, but in his eyes, beyond the sensual haze, gleams the spark of defiance, and when Thranduil keeps silent, he says: „Do you think me blind and deaf, Thranduil? Do you really believe I could not feel your own arousal at this…“ he spits the words „game of yours.“

Thranduil shrinks back as if stung, in the blink of an eye he is back to his feet, his temper seething. „You“, he hisses. „You ingrate, insolent creature. How dare you insult me?! I was to give you closure on this infatuation of yours, besmirch myself with acts of mortal lust and base desires and you, you have the audacity to scorn me…“

„So, what will you do, oh great king“ Thorin mocks. „Will you strike me again till my cheeks bruise and my lips bleed? Or will you defile me properly this time, fuck me till I scream and pledge all my riches to you, all the gold and gemstones Erebor holds?“

There is a glint of madness in the dwarf’s gaze; he just wants everything, the treasure, his homeland but also the beatings and the abuse of his body, this sick, short-lived, greedy beast. Thranduil can see it now, clear as day, and still he cannot look without longing at him, at the haughty stare, the tense muscles and the proud jut of his cock.

Perhaps he has to admit that it’s not only the dwarf’s otherness that excites him, the vigour condensed into solid form, yet fleeting as daylight  – it’s also his own desire that’s mirrored, outside of him, like the reflection in a looking glass, his own wickedness and depravity, usually hidden beneath porcelain skin and delicate features that now appear like a mere mask, forged from time and isolation, under which has all along slumbered a creature of similar making as the _naug_ before him, a being of flesh and bones and desires. He too longs for treasures and fulfilment, too apparent are his appetites to deny them; he knows very well how hard he is under his fine, precious robes, so ready he fears one swift grasp of a dwarfish hand might be enough to undo him, deprived as he is of tenderness and affection. Yet obviously this is not the time nor the place to have what he craves; he will have to wait, exercise patience. A week, a year, a decade – what does it matter? It’s so easy to believe in one’s own lies.

“You cannot withstand me forever, Thorin, son of Thrain. The day will come when I have you beg for what I would have granted you today, at so modest a price.” And he allows himself one last glance at the dwarf’s nudity, before he turns in a twirl of cloak and hair and arrogance to leave his own quarters, flee from defeat and the lure of dubious triumph. 

“Take him back to his cell!” he orders the guards outside his doors. They still dare not look at him, shrinking back from his temper, bewildered by the cold anger that flattens the usual melody of his voice, but Thranduil pays no more heed to them and their scruples and qualms, shrouded as he is in fury and futile desires, he just walks past, down the corridors, in long-limbed strides, anxious to get out of the constriction of his halls and to seek reassurance and calm beyond the confinements of stone, in the woodlands beneath the starry night sky.

                                                  


End file.
